Dawn is breaking
by EugeniaVictoria
Summary: An Ashley-centric piece, set both before and after the war.
1. Antebellum

**_Author's note: I originally wrote this story in 2009, and have now revised and rewritten the two chapters. It's just a little story, a closer look at what I think Ashley may have felt for the two women in his life, Melanie and Scarlett. I don't suppose there will be more to come, so I marked it as complete._ **

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**1. Antebellum, 1861 **

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Ashley Wilkes stepped out of the great library and walked calmly across the mighty hall of Twelve Oaks, enjoying the silence that would soon be swept away by the noise and chatter of the long-awaited barbecue. His steps were confident, for he knew every corner of this house like the back of his hand. He would have found his way blindfolded.

Almost every morning he allowed himself to take such a walk. He would watch the servants as they prepared everything for the day and then take his leave to sit in the library for a while, his favourite room in the house. Afterwards, he would head for the wide porch with its huge columns and watch the morning rise over the hills of Georgia, admiring the beauty of the sun in all its glory, spreading its rays across the red earth of the land.

As usual, strolling in the direction of the porch, he passed all the exquisite paintings that adorned the high white walls of the great hall. Occasionally, he would stop and gaze at those he loved best, a smile forming on his lips. There were portraits of his family in the mighty company of famous personalities of times gone by, long dead. There, Napoleon, the great general, on the edge of victory. George Washington, the first president of the United States, gazing back at him with stern eyes. Women, too; a girl, not older than 18, with a sparkling tiara on her dark hair: Victoria, Queen of England. To her left a female of exquisite looks, Eugénie, the Empress of France. She had a tiny waste, dark hair and pale skin, and was probably the fairest monarch to walk the earth these days. There were also copies of famous paintings such as the Mona Lisa or The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo, the iconic image of the hand of God giving life to man.

And yet, hanging a little apart from all these marvellous works, above a small table on which stood a crystal vase with fresh roses, there was a portrait of his mother, and to him it was more dear than any other. There was an air of dignity about her as she gazed down at him with her bright eyes, her thin lips smiling. She was clad in a grey dress of some fine cloth, her hands resting peacefully in her lap. Around her neck a golden necklace adorned with sapphires glittered luminously in startling contrast to the paleness of her face and hair.

The painting was made about a year after Ashley's birth. His mother had been a young woman then, mistress of a huge household, constantly busy and never at ease, yet in this painting she looked calm, peaceful even, a woman pleased with the world and her position in it.

As Ashley looked up at her with tender eyes, he felt no grief or despair – the pain of being motherless, bereft of the love and understanding only a mother could give, had lessened over the years. Now it was but a faint melancholy and a feeling of nostalgia that welled up inside him, and he missed her.

He was a man now, soon to make decisions that would effect his whole life. And in these days, despite the good relationship he had with his father, he wished to talk to her, to hear her advice, to lean his head on her shoulder and just be her son.

Her death had been a hard blow to all of them. After his wife's passing, John Wilkes turned into a different man, gracious but aloof. He would never marry again. India was mistress of the house now, and Ashley, although he knew that she performed her duties to the best of her abilities, never complaining, wished it could be otherwise. True, India was smart and strong-willed, proud and well-bred, the very embodiment of the perfect hostess. But she was also a woman, a young woman deprived of the chance to enjoy herself, to dance and rejoice as the others did, ever bound to obligation. Already the stress and pressure of keeping the great household in order had left lines of exhaustion on her brow.

And as for Honey – she definitely lacked the influence and guidance of a mother. Ever desirous to please and be adored, she behaved foolishly at times in her efforts to attract attention. Ashley, no matter how much he loved her, could not deny that, from time to time, he was ashamed of her.

But who was he to talk? He sensed that he, too, was not quite the man Mrs. Wilkes would have wanted him to be. If she were still among the living, she would probably pat his hand and tell him that he was too dreamy.

He laughed quietly to himself. Yes, she had been unique. And in the years following her death, until now, he had dreamed of a wife who would resemble her, a woman as kind-hearted and gracious as his beloved mother.

He had found her. For today, Melanie would come.

He left the gallery behind and went outside. It was still very early in the morning, although he had been contemplating for quite a while. Dawn was breaking. He leaned against one of the huge white columns and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of Melanie. She was not the type of woman one would instantly label as a beauty, with her heart-shaped face, silky thick hair and a pair of deep brown eyes shining with the goodness and honesty of a pure and innocent soul. And yet these childlike features were dear to him for they told of her singular and precious loveliness, a beauty that came from inside.

Ashley, who had seen his fair share of the world and possessed a keen eye for the hearts and notions of others, knew that this was a woman of rare value, one in a million. A lady despite her young age, Melanie was the most generous and selfless of women, thinking of everyone except herself. She was so many things, more than she even knew, he mused. Humble but zealous in her loyalty to those she loved, timid but strong. And above all, there was the depth of her benevolence… She was the milk of human kindness.

He could not wait to see her again and kiss her small hand, to take her in his arms in a moment of absolute privacy. He wondered briefly what she would wear, but it didn't matter. To him, she was always pretty. But it was not her body or her face that made her so attractive to him – it was the fact that she was the best person he had ever known in his life. They had known each other for ever, and everyone knew that they would get married, eventually. It was the right decision. They were alike, and they would be happy. He hoped that this happiness that he knew was in his grasp would not be spoiled too soon, that no war would come between them.

He put his hands in his pockets, and for the last time as a true bachelor beheld a sight that almost seemed too beautiful to his mortal eye. Over the hills and far away, the sun crept up and sent over the countryside a shimmer of red and gold. The landscape with its red earth was slowly lightening up, and the cypresses, standing in a neat alley reaching up to he house, began swinging in a soft breeze. It was amazing, a divine image of nature, as beautiful and breathtaking as never before. And in this moment of serenity, Ashley felt comforted. His troubles fell away, his fear of war and turmoil decreased. There was nothing in the world that could harm this place, was there? This was Twelve Oaks, a house that would always be a remnant of the grace and dignity of old times, as mighty and strong as a rock in a sweeping storm. The only place where one could watch the dawn so peacefully. He savoured the feeling of this morning. There was a beauty and a charm to it that he could not quite put his finger on, as if this was the last sunrise he'd be able to watch being the man he had been until today. There was a glamour to it, a calm perfection that sent shivers down his spine, and he could not tear himself away from this mighty scenery.

This was his land – he would inherit all of it after his father's death. And he loved every stone, every tree, every inch of the red hot earth. In his mind, he could see himself living in the house for years and years to come, watching such a sunrise many times with his children and grandchildren. An endless line of calm years, as predictable and comforting as a fairy tale. In this oasis amidst the turmoil of the world he would spend his lifetime reading, thinking, wondering. A thousand times and more he would walk down the great steps and across the solemn hall, step outside and stroll the vast gardens behind the house.

With Melanie by his side, he'd live the dream of his youth, a life of contentment and peace, untroubled by the swiftness of the lives of others beyond this cherished place, in the uproar of the cities. Here he would dwell, with a wife by his side who embodied all the dignity and grace of womanhood. She was grace itself. So delicate. So utterly pure.

So unlike another young woman for whom he felt something. _Used _to feel something, he corrected himself.

Yes, Scarlett, he thought, smiling as he looked in the direction of Tara, which was far off and yet so close.

Ever since he had returned from the tour, he had been rejoiced in her beauty, her charm, her high spirits – she was refreshingly different, so unlike everyone else in the neighbourhood, he could sense that.

He adored her, yes. Desired her, often. Frequently, when he lay awake in the wee hours of the night, he could not push away the thought of her tentative smile, of the bright green eyes glimmering with adoration and something like worship whenever she looked at him. What man could not feel something for a woman like her, beautiful, vivacious, treating him as if he were some sort of demigod?

He certainly didn't deserve it. He had not told her of his upcoming engagement. But, she must know, mustn't she? Everyone knew he'd marry Melanie one day.

But Scarlett was so young…. too young even to realize that they were too different, too unlike in character and habits of mind to ever be together. He knew she felt something for him – but that was a childish notion. Hell itself would turn to ice before a woman like her would ever be happy with the likes of him. He was water where she was fire. If she were the wind itself, then he would be the calm sea at night, lying passively as the storm swept over it.

It would never work, and he had not encouraged her - or so he preferred to think. Whenever they talked, he was polite and friendly, but never daring or charming and he hardly ever flattered her the way other beaux did. His careful reluctance was like a shield – a shield to protect himself from her charms. But he also sensed that she did not understand him, that she was too young to see beyond his handsome and gentle visage.

She did not love him, and he did not love her… unfortunately. He felt a disturbing rush of desire every time he bowed over her hand, a tender friendship when he talked to her, a flash of seldom humour when she told him an amusing story. Her body was a rapture – but he did not feel the same veneration and respect for her that he harboured in his heart for Melanie.

In his future wife he saw a resemblance of his mother, a person who was truly capable of loving him for what he really was, who was like him. She had been born into the same world, grown up with the same morals and values. Like him she was a dreamer, more of a beholder than an actor, secretly admiring those with a greater love of life. They both watched the days go by with patience, living in their own little cosmos. In the two of them there was nothing of the carefully curbed wildness that burned in Scarlett's heart, nothing of the passion and forwardness of the Tarleton boys, nothing of Cathleen Calvert's energy and lively spirit. He knew that and admitted it to himself without hesitation. Those people were earthy and bold and daring, and the Wilkes and Hamiltons were nothing of the kind. They had always desired to live happily in peace and silence, to read their books and listen to their music and not be disturbed by the foolishness of the world around them. And yes, maybe they had become a little too dreamy, too unworldly.

But at least Melanie would understand. There was no one else for him, no woman could fit him more, and why not marry her? She was a jewel, one in a million, with a heart of gold, and he admired her for her goodness. Yes, she would understand that he could never give himself to her wholly, completely, like the lovers of ancient tragedies, just as he did not expect her to live for him alone.

She would never want _all _of him. His respect, yes. His love, above all. But never his undivided attention at all times. She'd let him read his books and have his illusions and imaginations. One like Scarlett would want all of him, heart, body and soul, and if he could not give her that, it would leave her crushed and disappointed.

No, Scarlett was not for him. She would definitely look gorgeous at the barbecue, and crackle with life and energy as she always did - but he would resist her charms.

His future with Melanie loomed brightly before him, and nothing would spoil that. _Nothing, _he repeated silently.

His eyes found back to the scene before him, and his heart rejoiced at what he saw. His beautiful home, effigy of his past, foundation of the present, hope for his future. He made a vow to do this house justice, to be the gentleman he was born to be.

He would welcome Melanie and be a good husband. He'd fulfil her every desire, if only … if only no war would come and wipe clean all that he held dear. If only there would be no war, then nothing on earth could come between him and his intended.

And with that thought, he went back into the house. He passed the painting of his mother, bestowed another tender look on it, and climbed up the grand stairs of the mansion.

Little did he know that the splendour of Twelve Oaks would not last long, that soon its glory and majesty would be gone with the wind, vanished for all time, and along with it the calm perfection of the old days, his peace of mind, his very happiness.

The portrait of his mother would soon be burned to ashes, and her smile would die away.


	2. Postbellum

_**This chapter has been revised as well. Re-reading what I wrote two and a half years ago is kind of fun. Also, I'm beginning to remember what an interesting character I find Ashley to be. Complex, profound… and although I despise him for letting Scarlett on for so many years with all his foolish his talk of honour, I like his passion for books and all that stuff, and can sort of relate to his unworldly notions, his desire to live a life spent thinking and dreaming... Oh bear with me, lol. Enjoy! **_

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**2. Postbellum, 1873**

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It was a grey and misty morning in autumn 1873, when Dr. Meade left the cosy warmth of his house in a hurry. His feet took him swiftly to the house of the Wilkes in Ivy Street, as if they knew that something dreadful was happening, that someone was in urgent need of the doctor's help.

The old doctor was worried indeed. They had sent Dilcey to break to him the news that Melanie was ill, and that he was needed at once.

And so he rushed trough the faint rain falling from the darkened sky, his mind occupied with thoughts of Melanie's condition.

He had been the first to tell her that she was going to have another child, and he had silently said to himself that it would most likely be her death. She was not made to give birth to children, her delicate body to feeble and weak to survive the toil of labour.

"Dilcey, what exactly has happened?" he said to his companion as they hurried down the streets in direction of the Wilkes' house. The huge bronze servant looked him in the eye. "I doan know, Dr. Meade. I didn't see Miz Wilkes. I doan know anythin' 'bout it, just that Mist' Ashley send me to fetch you. All I knows is that she's lost blood an' that… that she looks deathly pale. That's whut Mist' Ashley said to me."

The woman, usually very controlled and not as easily vexed and nervous as other darkies tended to be, seemed to be anxious. Was there anyone who did not love Melanie?

"How much blood? Where?" asked the doctor. He needed specific information to prepare himself mentally for what would have to be done.

Dilcey shrugged. "I doan know anythin' more, Dr. Meade. I's sorry. But, when the door to Miss Melanie's room was open for a minut', I think I saw there's blood beneath her legs. The blanket's all red." She made a sad face, and then looked down to her big feet. "Thank you, Dilcey", the doctor murmured.

So Melanie was miscarrying, he thought deeply shocked. Of course she was.

He had told her several times, no he had told them both, her and Ashley, that another baby would kill her. Beau's birth, although the doctor himself had not been there, had probably been a torture beyond comparison. Melanie was too fragile, too petite - she reminded him more of a young girl in bloom not yet grown to womanhood than of a grown female capable of carrying a child. She did not possess the physical strength and health of women like Scarlett Butler.

But of course she had not listened to him. Her body was weak, but with her kind, devoted heart she desired nothing more than to be a mother, to look after children and tend their wounds, lavish them and love them with all their petty little ideas and moods. She had known it was risky, that she would very likely pay the highest price for her dreams.

"_Children are life renewing itself, Dr. Meade_", he remembered her saying to him as he warned her of the dangers another pregnancy would bring. _"And when life does that, danger seems very unimportant."_

He sighed. He could not blame her for wanting another child, after all she was a woman. No, she was not to blame.

Ashley on the other hand – Ashley was at fault indeed. He, as the husband and protector of such a frail thing, ought to have shown more conscience. A little more common sense. Dr. Meade had told him on several occasions that Melanie was not to have another baby. That it would kill her, but Ashley had obviously not listened. Of course, Ashley was but a man … and every man needed to satisfy their carnal lusts. To share the marriage bed was a holy, a sacred duty.

But in this particular case, Ashley should have stopped himself, for the one to pay would be Melanie. But, Dr. Meade figured, Ashley had probably not stopped himself from fathering another child because Melanie had wanted a baby so much. She was such a good, kind-hearted woman, never thinking of herself. She had desired nothing more than to have a big family, to share her happiness with children of her own.

Dr. Meade, although he knew Melanie was not capable of any evil, had sometimes seen an expression akin to jealousy in her eyes when she watched Bonnie, Scarlett's daughter, as if she wanted such a charming little girl for herself, as if she would give anything to have a daughter to spoil and love and cherish. A little princess. Well, Bonnie was dead, and Melanie was most likely to follow her to heaven if he did not walk faster. He did not turn around to check whether Dilcey was still behind him or not, he just kept walking, running even, to come to Melanie's aid.

Finally, he saw the small flat house looming in the mist before him, its pretty little garden neatly groomed and mowed, but unbearably silent, the only sound coming from the rain drops falling onto the few benches and the steps that led to the narrow porch. The doctor climbed them swiftly and knocked on the door. Behind him, Dilcey came hurrying up the path, breathing heavily.

The shuffling of quick feet came to their ears from inside the house, and then the door opened with a crack, revealing a terrified Ashley.

"Dr. Meade", he said. "Thank God. Come in." He stepped away to let the two slightly damp figures in. A cold gust of wind made them all shiver, and he quickly shut the door.

The doctor turned around to see India and Aunt Pitty in the yellow lamplight, sitting in a corner of the parlour. Pitty looked as if she was about to faint, but for once in her life her fear was genuine. She looked at him with wide eyes, willing him to speak and comfort her, but he could not bother himself with her foolishness now. India seemed to be worried and grief stricken. Dr. Meade nodded to them both and took off his cape, handing it to India, who had come over to him. The old man wondered briefly why she was there, for Melanie had told her never to enter this house again.

He turned around to face Ashley. "Tell me, quickly. What about Melanie? What happened?" The tone of his voice was urgent, and Ashley swallowed, bowing his blonde head. "Melanie, she's … I don't know what happened" he managed to say. "Everything was alright until… Oh, God. Out of the blue she said she was in pain, and held her stomach and her face contorted and… I don't know. Please. Please go to her." His expression was tormented, like a caged animal facing cruel slaughter.

Dr. Meade noticed it with anguish, but he managed to control himself. He was in charge now, and in his anxiety Ashley was nothing but a helpless child – just like Aunt Pitty. "Yes, yes, I'll go to her", he said, turning to the sleeping room, but then, already knowing that Melanie was probably suffering a miscarriage, he turned around and, looking at no one particularly, he ordered: "I need hot water and some dry cloth and some linen, and a scissor. And a hot coffee for me, please. No sugar." Then he put his hand on the door knob, feeling the sweat on his palm, and pushed it open.

He had seen many things in his life - disease, death, corpses, streams of blood, but nothing had ever shocked him as much as the sight that presented itself to him now. There, in the heavy bed made of cheap walnut, lay a pale creature, tiny and fragile, like a doll in an oversized cradle. Melanie's skin was like paper, her eyes shut, the thin arms resting weakly on the white sheets. From beneath the blanket came the smell of fresh blood. She opened her eyes when she heard the noise coming from the door, and it seemed to Dr. Meade that she smiled a little, as if she knew that rescue had come. Then her lids closed again and she moaned, surged by a wave of pain that made her heart-shaped face twist.

Later, after the miscarriage, Dr. Meade did his best for Melanie. Hours and hours he spent in the sleeping room where she lay, bathed in sweat and terribly exhausted.

She was deathly pale while the doctors face was bright red from the stuffy heat in the room. Dilcey provided him with coffee and some biscuit, but he did not touch it.

From outside the room he could hear nothing except the hushed whispering of Aunt Pitty and India and sometimes, hardly audible, Ashley's voice.

Of course the old lady could not stand any of it and was throwing her usual tantrum. But even Pitty, the most ignorant and foolish of all women, realized the seriousness of the situation. Her sobs could be heard from the sitting room, mingled with the cries of little Beau who had woken up and joined the adults to see what was going on. He was crying for his mother, but she would not come. Ashley tried to calm the boy down, Dr. Meade could hear his soothing words echoing across the hall.

He could not look after the child or Ashley or the ladies now, he had to concentrate on his patient, though there was not much hope. Ashley had come in once to look after Melanie and to help, but there had been so much horror in his bright eyes that the doctor had sent him out.

All the time, Melanie said nothing. Sometimes she managed to mumble incomprehensibly, but the Doctor could not make out what she saying.

He constantly checked her pulse and heartbeat as if to reassure himself that she was still breathing. Occasionally she opened her tired eyes and looked at him with a helpless pleading in their depths, but he could not help her.

He prayed to Got that she would live. That a miracle would save her.

He was not even ready to face the painful truth himself … for there was no doubt now that Melanie would not see the light of day. The miscarriage had been too much for her petite body, and she did not possess enough strength to heal from the immense loss of blood.

Her features already held an expression of surrender and defeat, her skin was almost transparent and the shadow of death was upon it. About her nose there was a pinched look, a look he had seen too often in his career not to comprehend what it inevitably presaged.

Her limbs lay now weakly under the blanket, and she could hardly move more than a hand. There were dark circles under her eyes and when she parted her lips to speak, it was only done with a huge effort that drained her even more.

It was terrible to see her like this, a small helpless person caught in pain and weakness, clinging to a life that was slowly running out. There was no doubt.

And yet Dr. Meade was not willing to give up, to accept the fact that she was leaving like this. He did everything that was in his power. He wiped his face with his sleeve and talked to his patient soothingly.

Hours and hours passed, as the heat in the room increased until the point when he was in desperate need of a break, but he would not leave Melanie now. He kept cooling her forehead with a cloth, unwilling to ask any of the women for help. Aunt Pitty would cry and faint, and India… somehow he refused to call her in, he did not know why. He did not want India to say things that did not matter now.

Meanwhile in the sitting room, India Wilkes was terrified. Her usually stern eyes were wide with fear and anxiety, and as she squeezed Pittypat's hand, more to calm herself down than to give comfort to the old lady, she tried to take in what was happening. She could not believe that Melanie had had a miscarriage. She had not even known that her sister-in-law was pregnant.

But, of course Melanie had not told her. They were enemies, right? India was not even allowed to be in this house. Oh God, she thought, grief and regret and a thousand of other emotions making her shiver. Melanie must not die, she was too good to be true, and India loved her too much. Despite the feud that stood between them, she loved Melanie and was unable to let her go like this. She needed to talk to her, she needed… she needed Melanie and for the first time in years she felt like a child, helpless and regretful and utterly miserable. Pittypat sobbed, and India turned away from her, letting go of her hand. She could not stand Pitty's tantrums now.

Suddenly, her eyes fell on Ashley.

He was sitting at the table, his head in his hands. He looked … defeated, tired. Was this really her brother, and if so, what had become of him? This was not the dashing young man she had once known. The war had broken him, destroyed his life, and now… He could not live without Melanie, India knew that better than he did. He loved Melanie. And all of sudden, she felt terribly guilty. She had accused him, his own brother, of adultery. She had turned her back on Melanie and him because she hated Scarlett and wanted to take revenge.

Now it all seemed so foolish to her. There was no sense in it. She knew that Ashley loved his wife and whatever his relationship to Scarlett Butler was, it did not matter. He was losing Melanie, the only woman that truly meant something to him, and she, India, had tried to tear them apart. She wanted to burst into tears, throw herself into his arms and confess that she had been wrong, but she must not. He knew that she had been wrong all along and she was not going to add her stupid confessions to his misery. How she had been missing him! He was her only brother after all. They had not talked to each other for so long… the feud had stopped her from addressing him. But now she needed to hear his voice, needed to give him comfort in return.

Trying to calm herself, she went over to him, patting Pitty absent-mindedly on the shoulder. "Ashley", she said as she put a hand on his arm. "Ashley, what is it? Do you need anything?" She was worried, and he could hear it in her voice, but he said nothing, he only shrugged.

Then he lifted his head and played with his hands as if they were a child's toy, seemingly oblivious to his sister's presence. India was shocked. He was not even asking how Melanie was… did he… did he … suspect something? He must not know that Melly was about to die. He would not be able to take it.

"Where's Beau?" India asked, squeezing his arm with an intensity that made him look at her, finally.

He bestowed one of his tired smiles on her. "He's sleeping. I brought him to bed. I tucked him in. Don't worry, India. He's asleep."

She stepped away from him, sadness written all over her face. Ashley had the expression of a sleepwalker. His gaze was dull, as if he was not really there. India, for once in her life, could not keep her composure. She felt sick, all she wanted to do was run, run from this sticky little house, run away from the duty of telling her brother that his wife was dying. She hurried to the kitchen, feeling Pitty's anxious eyes in her back, and poured down a glass of water. The cool liquid ran down her throat and a faint hint of her usual dignity returned. She had to face this. She must be strong and go back to Ashley's side, he could not do this alone, no matter what he thought of her. And she had to comfort Aunt Pitty. But she was so anxious herself. She had wronged Ashley and most of all Melanie, and she needed to apologize. If only the doctor would let her into the room! He had been in there for hours, and only occasionally he came out to get a cup of coffee, some fresh linen or some cool water for his patient. India wished with desperate intensity to get in there, take Melanie's hand and press it against her cheek, and tell her that she was sorry.

The doctor was alone with Melanie when, suddenly, she managed to speak.

"Dr. Meade", she whispered, trying to touch his hand, "it's no use, is it? Don't try so hard, it's sickening you, I can see it… do not stress yourself like this… I…" she breathed deeply as if to calm her troubled mind, "I know it's over, I… I knew it when I lost the baby. Please don't make yourself sick."

She closed her eyes and it appeared to Dr. Meade as if she sank even deeper into the pillow, the two black braids of hair laying on it like dark silk. He opened his mouth, too shocked to say anything, but she was speaking again.

"I know I must die, mustn't I? Don't hold it back, Dr. Meade, I… I can see it in your eyes. I must die." He only nodded in a ridiculous manner and let her continue. "I'm… I'm not afraid. Because… because I know I'll go to a better place, won't I?"

He stepped forward and took her cool hand in his with awkward tenderness, so unlike him. "Yes, Melanie. Of course you will. Who, if not you? Don't you worry."

She smiled and he pressed her hand gently.

She made a great effort. "Please go to Ash… Mr. Wilkes. He must be worried sick. Please… I must see him. I know I can stay awake for an hour or more."

Her hand fell down, and she closed her eyes.

Dr. Meade turned around to leave the room, but when his hand was on the door knob, her voice rose distantly once more: "And let Beau come to me, please, and… and I want Scarlett. Scarlett…." She drifted off.

The doctor nodded. "Of course, Melanie. I'll be right back."

"Thank you" she whispered faintly.

He found Ashley standing by a window in the parlour, head bent.

"Ashley, listen to me. Ashley…" Dr. Meade said in a lowered voice, trying to get the man's attention. Ashley looked at him then, and there was no common sense in his eyes, only a clouded gaze of disbelief and desperation.

"Listen, it is indeed dreadful that I'm the one who must tell you this but as I'm your family's doctor…" he said hesitantly, not knowing how to break such news to the man, but he knew he could not hold it back forever.

"Ashley, Melanie is not well. In fact, she is fatally ill. She has lost too much blood. And I… I am afraid she is not going to last… What I am trying to say is, I am afraid she is passing away." He put a hand on Ashley's shoulder, a weak attempt to comfort him, although he knew it was of no use.

He saw the fatigue and worry in Ashley's eyes, and it was a painful sight to behold. He looked like a child lost in a bad dream.

"But Dr. Meade… is there nothing you can do to help her?" he stammered. "Is there something I could do? I'll do anything, anything, just tell me and-"

The old man sighed. "I did what's in my power… and that is not enough. She is in God's hands now. I am so sorry, Ashley."

And he was truly full of misery. He loved Melanie almost like a daughter, or at least a niece, and he was desperate. He loathed God for the first time. The old lingered, and the young died – it was nothing but a cruel joke. For a moment he thought he would not care if everyone he had ever cured was to die, if only Melanie could live. He was a well-known doctor, good at what he was doing, but for Melanie there was no cure. He could not save her.

Ashley's face turned white and he looked impossibly anxious.

"But it cannot be true!" he burst out suddenly, his voice shaking. "She is so young, she must not die! Dr. Meade you must be wrong."

In every other situation Dr. Meade's face would have turned crimson under such an insult, but now he did not care.

"I told you both that another child would be her death. And it is her death. She is not strong enough. I'm sorry." He let his head fall on his breast in a defeated manner. Ashley's mouth was shaking, but he managed to mumble: "I see. Thank you, Dr. Meade. I'm sure you will stay until she… until Melly has…" he trailed off and lowered his head as if he could speak no more, and then he sank weakly into a nearby chair, as if a heavy load was pulling him down.

The old doctor turned away from him, sighing. India looked at him with respect and gratitude for what he had just done. Now she did not have to tell her brother of his wife's death. She was calm and composed and ready to face the truth, but there was also a horror and an anxiety in her eyes, which surprised Dr. Meade. She had seemed so hard, so cold in the past few months.

Pittypat though burst into tears. Her tiny locks were shaking and she trembled in her seat, a handkerchief pressed tightly to her fragile lips.

"Why, Auntie", said India, rushing over to the old woman, "don't be afraid. Hush now. Here, take a clean handkerchief." She stroked Pitty's cheeks and handed her a fresh linen handkerchief before she turned to Dr. Meade. "What's to be done, now?" she asked. The doctor waved her nearer and whispered into her ear. "Go quickly and tell Captain Butler that Melanie is dying. He must send for Scarlett – immediately. I think she's in Marietta now."

He saw her tense up at the mentioning of Scarlett's name, but he cut her off before she could say anything. "Do it. I don't want to hear anything. It's Melanie's wish. She wants Scarlett. Now go." He led her to the door, reached for her cape and put it over her shoulders, then he pushed her out with tender force. "Good luck" he said before he closed the door, letting her stand in the cold.

Then he went back to Melanie's side.

Meanwhile, Ashley put his head on his arms and sobbed. He cried hot salty tears that run down his tired face, finding their way to his trembling lips. It was as if the stress and tenseness of years came crashing down, and he cried for the first time since the war.

This could not be true. No, no, she was not going to die.

He could not deal with it. He sat there in an awkward position, the tears finding no end. Sorrow washed away every other possible emotion, deep sorrow mixed with a weird disbelief. Like every other person facing the death of a beloved person, he tried to push away the finality and the hardness of such a blow, and every now and then he succeeded in telling himself that it was not really happening, that Melanie would wake up the next morning healthy and unscathed. But a moment later he burst into tears again, knowing he struggled in vain against her passing.

After a while, when the tears had lessened, simply because crying came now accompanied by a physical pain he could not stand, he raised his head and looked around. "Is this real" he said to himself, and he almost laughed, mirthlessly. There was no realization in his eyes, he was caught in a dreamlike void.

No, this was a ridiculous nightmare and he would wake up soon, quite soon. Melly would be there, she would take care of him. He was dreaming.

But then he heard the muffled cries of Aunt Pittypat and the doctor's calm, frightened voice, and he turned around. It was real.

There in the sleeping room she lay dying.

With dark circles under her eyes, her skin as pale as a sheet of paper, and death was in the air. Her death was inevitable, Dr. Meade had made that clear to him. And yet, he was unable to accept it.

He could not take his, he could not live without her. She was the only dream that had survived in the bitterness of his reality, the only light in this wretched existence that lacked all the grandeur and beauty of the old days …

She was his all.

She had been his greatest supporter throughout all these years of struggle and despair, she had fought for him and never complained, given him everything she possessed, her body, her soul, her strength and her love; she had been a wonderful wife and a devoted mother.

She was so pure, so kind, so utterly selfless.

And, for the first time in the 12 years of his marriage, Ashley realized to the full extent how ardently and completely he loved her.

The realization came crashing down on him with a vengeance and a completeness, it hit him like lightning, and he had never felt so lost in his life before. He must not lose her.

War and pain, loneliness and misery were nothing compared to this fear that held him in its grip, a gruesome feeling of utter loss, tormenting him, hurting him, destroying him.

For although he did not want to believe that she was dying, he knew that she was. She would go tonight, and without her, his life would be forfeit.

It had been forfeit ever since the war had started, a pitiful tragedy, and every day had been a fruitless nuisance. But Melanie had been the light of his life, always, since their marriage in April 1861, so many years ago.

She was his reason for living, and only now he realized that he had drawn all his strength from her, and she in return had never complained about his constant weakness and helplessness. No, quite the contrary. He knew for sure that she had always admired and loved him completely and with all her heart, thought only the best of him and defended him against everyone who would say something cruel or unjust.

She had always been faithful and loyal to him. She had never surrendered, never faltered. And what had he done for her? What had he given her? – Not much.

Well, yes, there were all the hours they had spent in cheerful conversation and comforting silence, all the embraces and innocent kisses, days and nights, months and years of familiar warmth and contentment.

But apart from that, Ashley could not think of anything special he had ever offered or said or given to her, and he was not sure if he had really treated her as good as he should have. Of course he had always been a good husband, somehow. Or had he? Polite he had been, honourable, and kind. But never passionate or daring. He knew now that he had not done much to improve their situation, their living standard. Instead he had relied on her and spent his days pitying himself and the whole world.

He was as guilty as Cain for letting her down, and he hated himself for it. He should have done more to please and satisfy her, he should have helped and supported her, but he had not. And now it was too late.

He briefly wondered why he had always treated her with kindness and understanding, but never with passion or real, honest love.

Of course he had loved her all these years… but he had never _really_ admitted to himself and to her how much he needed her, cherished her, depended on her – until now.

Instead, he had lusted after the body of another woman, a woman was dear to him, whom he appreciated, but who could never be like Melanie. He was so sorry for everything, and now it was too late. It was too late to tell his wife how much he regretted his own foolishness and cowardice, to let her know that he would change if only they could start again. But they would never start again now. There were so many things they had never done, seen or experienced together, and knowing this made him miserable.

For he did love her, and he needed her, and he could never let her go.

And thus the minutes passed slowly, and Ashley's torture did not come to an end. He did no longer take any notice of Aunt Pitty or anything else. He was caught in a dark void that left no room for anything but this all-consuming misery.

In the blur of his mind he noticed that the old Doctor whispered something of Melanie asking for Scarlett, and India left the house. Dr. Meade rushed back to Melanie's room, and then, he did not know when, India returned, and she looked at him with bewilderment and pity in her usually stern eyes, but said nothing. He did not want to speak to her anyway. What did it matter now if he said anything or not? Nothing mattered, and he did not crave the speech of mortal men. He wanted Melanie. As he looked out the window at the cold November rain, he felt tears running down his cheeks once more.

Later, when the storm of grief had exhausted him completely, he suddenly longed for Scarlett and her irresistible strength. She could manage it all, she was brave and strong and unbreakable. He was wanting her badly. Pittypat's sobbing and India's efforts to give him comfort made him sick. He wanted Scarlett, his childhood friend, whom he had known for so long. Melly loved her so.

He realized once more how much he had wronged Melanie, longing for Scarlett all those years, but he also realized that it had been Scarlett's body and her will and her gumption that had drawn him to her, never her heart. He'd never wanted her love and he did not want it now.

He had also wronged Scarlett. He had never told her that he loved Melanie, for he had not known it himself, either. Only now did he know that she was his all, and Scarlett could never be anything but a friend, a companion. Yes, he had wronged them both, his wife and his friend, and he had been a fool. But still, he needed Scarlett now, needed to lean on her one last time, see her determined features again, or he would go crazy. Melanie was leaving him, and it was too horrible to face it alone.

All of sudden, he did not know how much time had passed, hasty steps were to be heard outside and soon the door was thrown open, and Scarlett Butler appeared with a gust of cold wind that started creeping through the hall and into the sitting room. They all rose at the sight of her, Pittypat trembling, India with utter grief in her eyes and without any trace of contempt, Ashley with relief and as unstable as a sleepwalker.

All he knew was that she was here, and that Melly had asked for her and that she was strong. He went over to her and put his hand upon her arm. She was trembling. "She asked for you" he said weakly. "She asked for you."

"Can I see her now?" asked Scarlett, her eyes full of confusion.

"No, Dr. Meade is in there now. I'm glad you've come, Scarlett." He said honestly. Yes, it was good. This was were she belonged, with Melanie, to protect her and shield her from all evil with her unyielding strength.

"I came as quickly as I could" she said now, taking off her bonnet and her cloak. "The train – She isn't really – Tell me, she's better, isn't she, Ashley?" Her shriek voice made the women shudder, but Ashley could not say anything. "Speak to me! Don't look like that! She isn't really – "

"She kept asking for you", he cut her off, and then her looked at her and he saw how she found the answer to her question in his expression, and then he noticed a sudden fear and horror in her emerald eyes.

"I don't believe it!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the hall. "And why didn't Melanie tell me? I'd never have gone to Marietta if I'd known!"

Ashley remembered the day when Melanie had told him she was going to have another baby. She had been so happy. The thought tormented him.

"She didn't tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you. She was afraid you'd scold her if you knew. She wanted to wait three – till she thought it safe and then surprise you all and laugh and say how wrong the doctors had been. And she was so happy. You know how she was about babies – how much she's wanted a little girl. And everything went so well until – and then for no reason at all – " He stopped. Then for no reason at all her face had twisted and she'd felt a sudden, sharp pain.

Dr. Meade heard voices in the hall, and he thought that someone must have come. The three in the hall had not said anything in a while.

He bestowed a sad look on Melanie who lay quietly on the bed, dying, and then he opened the door and stepped into the hall. His beard sank on his chest as he bowed his head in a defeated matter, and he knew he could do nothing more. Then his eyes fell on the four in the hall, a frozen look on each face. His gaze fell last on Scarlett, and he watched her for a moment with a sudden rush of feeling, despite the grief in his heart, and the old dislike and contempt came up in him again. Why Melanie loved that woman so much and wished to see her at her deathbed he surely did not know and would never understand.

Scarlett was a selfish and cold woman, and he did not like her. He did not remember the girl she had once been, nor did he care what had happened to her along the course of her life. All he knew was that she would have hurt Melanie deeply if Melanie had not always been such a good-natured, unworldly soul who was unable to see anything evil in someone she loved. He saw the fear in her eyes as he came towards her.

And yet she could no be all evil if Melanie loved her so and trust her with her life.

"So you finally got here" he said, and, as he noticed that Ashley started toward the closed door: "Not you, yet. She wants to speak to Scarlett."

Before he could do anything else, he felt someone plucking at his sleeve, and he looked down at India's pleading face. "Doctor", she said with a toneless voice, "let me see her for a moment. I've been here since this morning, waiting, but she – Let me see her for a moment. I want to tell her – must tell her – that I was wrong about – something." She did not look at Ashley or Scarlett, but Dr. Meade knew what she hinted at. His cold glance fell on Scarlett, who looked a little caught. "I'll see, Miss India", he said briefly, patting her hand. "But only if you'll give me your word not to use up her strength telling her you were wrong. She knows you were wrong and it will only worry her to hear you apologize."

He was not exactly sure whether India had been wrong indeed, but at least what he had just said was what India needed to hear. Melanie was not to be upset now with foolish confessions and things that were not important.

Then he heard Pitty's voice and he turned towards her. "Miss Pitty, you know you'd scream and faint." He said, a little unnerved, and gave her a glance.

But when he saw how she drew up her stout little body, with dry eyes and dignity in every curve, he changed his mind. Pitty loved Melanie and maybe she would be able to calm herself down for once in her life.

"Well, all right, honey, a little later" he said more kindly. "Come, Scarlett" he added, and after they had tiptoed down the hall to the closed door of Melanie's room, he put his hand on her shoulder in a hard grip.

"Now, Miss" he whispered, "no hysterics and no deathbed confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck!" He saw her expression and continued: "Don't give me any of your innocent stares. You know what I mean. Miss Melly is going to die easily and you aren't going to ease your conscience by telling her anything about Ashley. I've never harmed a woman yet, but if you say anything now – you'll answer to me." He opened the door before she could answer, pushed her in, and closed the door behind her. Then he went back to the others.

She heard someone open the door, and then the faint noise of foot steps on the carpet and the rustle of skirts as somebody sank down beside the bed. Someone grasped her hand and then she heard a voice, saying "It's me, Melly."

She opened her eyes a slit to reassure himself that it was really Scarlett, although she would recognize that bright voice among a thousand others. She paused a moment, satisfied that Scarlett was finally there, and then she drew a breath.

It was time. "Promise me?" she asked, and it was hard to speak.

"Oh, anything!" came the answer.

"Beau – look after him." Melanie continued and she felt how Scarlett pressed her hand. "I give him to you." She smiled faintly. Her beloved son. She would give him to no one else but her. "I gave him to you, once before – 'member? – before he was born." In her memory, she could feel the stifling heat of that day, so long ago. She could see herself begging Scarlett to take her baby should she die. She had survived then, but now… it was time.

She was not afraid. But she feared for her son. He was so small, so helpless in this mad world. Then she felt Scarlett stiffen next to her. "Oh Melly, don't talk like that!" She cried. "You know you'll pull through this-"

"No", Melanie cut her off. "Promise." She had to know her boy was taken care of. Scarlett gulped and answered: "You know I promise. I'll treat him like he was my own boy." Of course she will, Melanie thought, exhausted but relieved. "College?" she added, and she realized how flat her voice sounded.

Scarlett nodded. "Oh, yes! The university and Harvard and Europe and anything he wants – and – and – a pony – and music lessons - Oh, please, Melly, do try! Do make an effort!"

Silence fell, it was hard for Melanie to speak. She felt how her strength left her, how weak her limbs had become over the last hours, and she struggled to say something. There was more on her mind, more that must be said. This was the last she could do for him. "Ashley", she said, finally, "Ashley and you-" Then her voice faltered into stillness, she felt so utterly weak. Scarlett said nothing.

Melanie tried to make an effort, and she thought of Ashley, his beloved face, his bright blue eyes. She had to do this for him. "Ashley" she said again, touching Scarlett's bowed head with feeble fingers, and then Scarlett raised her head and Melanie beheld again those sparkling emeralds. She was anxious she might not find strength for words.

Scarlett looked at her, bewildered and almost frightened at first, Melanie did not know why, but then she breathed out with relief in her eyes and asked: "What about Ashley, Melly?"

"You'll look after him?" Melanie asked.

"Oh, yes."

"He catches cold – so easily" she managed to say, images of Ashley coughing and laying in bed with a fever coming to her mind.

"Look after - his business – you understand?" He would need Scarlett's help. She was so smart, so able. "Ashley isn't – practical" she added. "Look after him, Scarlett – but – don't ever let him know." He must not know it, she thought vehemently. But … Scarlett would see to that. She met her friend's eyes with a triumphant, small smile as the protection of Ashley from a too harsh world passed from her to Scarlett, and that his pride must never be hurt – that he must never know.

Suddenly, the struggle went from Melanie's face and ease came to her with Scarlett's promise. She was tired, but she was reluctant to let her friend go.

Her Scarlett. A surge of tenderness and pride overwhelmed her for the last time as she looked at her friend whom she loved better than any woman in the world. "You're so smart – so brave – always been so good to me – "

There came a sob freely to Scarlett's throat, and Melanie could not take that sound, but somehow, she could not speak. Of course the poor thing was terrified to let her go … but she would learn to live with it. Scarlett could take anything.

If only… if only she, Melanie, could make an effort… but no. It was the end. Beau was taken care of, Ashley was safe… and now… now there were only the two of them, here in this dimly lit room. The world fell away, the years rolled back, and Melanie was at Twelve Oaks, and she could see Scarlett there, so dashing, so pretty, so utterly charming. Oh, how she had admired her then! And there, the bazaar. Melanie smiled. Scarlett and Rhett Butler dancing. They were so handsome together. Another day, Scarlett delivering Beau. That horrible moment when she shot the Yankee. She was so brave. Scarlett at Tara, putting her to bed, Scarlett with a tray in her hands, sitting down next to her, feeding her… Oh, how she loved her. Then, a beautiful memory of Scarlett and Bonnie and Captain Butler. Suddenly, a thought came to Melanie.

She noticed that Scarlett had grabbed her hand and put it against her cheek and said quietly: "Good night."

"Promise me" Melanie whispered.

"Anything, darling."

Melanie thought of him, Rhett, and she remembered that dreadful night a few days after Scarlett's accident, when he had sobbed in her lap and cried so passionately for his beloved wife. She had realized then that he loved Scarlett even more than she'd previously assumed. He was so kind, so generous, had always been so good to her, Melanie. She had always liked him.

"Captain Butler" she whispered. "Be kind to him. He loves you so."

"Yes indeed", came Scarlett's answer, and then Melanie felt a light kiss on her hand before it was gently laid back on the bed. She felt calm now, satisfied, as if nothing could harm her anymore.

Then, a few minutes later, Ashley, galvanized by Scarlett's urgent voice, ran to Melanie's room, sank beside her bed and took her cool hand in his. He pressed a kiss on each of her fingertips, and his lips trembled as he did so. She looked at him, a smile on her lips, and her dark eyes were not sorrowful, not terrified – they were as calm and kind and comforting as they had ever been, every day of their life together.

Suddenly Ashley stopped weeping and rose to his feet, and he kissed her forehead with all the tenderness and love he would harbour in his heart for her until the end of his days.

"Goodbye my love" he said, pressing her hand lightly, and he smiled.

"Goodbye" she whispered, so softly that he had to lean in even closer, and in that very moment the candle of her life burned out.


End file.
